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Literature Text
maybe not.
because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,
dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,
with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.
but what if they were?
then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,
the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,
and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.
if only.
because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,
dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,
with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.
but what if they were?
then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,
the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,
and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.
if only.
Literature
I was taught right from wrong
I was taught right from wrong
By a murderer
I was taught truth from lies
By a magician
I was taught who my friends were
By my enemy
I was taught to be honest
By a professional liar
I was taught to always speak my mind
By being told to keep quiet
I was taught to be kind
By someone that beat me down
I was taught to smile
By someone who could never wipe a scowl of their face
I was taught to love
By being abused
I was taught to live
By someone who was already dead
I was taught to perform
By someone with stage fright
I was taught to be excellent
By someone that failed in everything
I was taught to rely on only my self
By being su
Literature
the lump in my throat isn't always a poem
a man with a scruffy beard and ice-blue eyes once told me:
when we love, we get angry when we are not loved the same way.
i wonder if he saw the hint of indignation,
the fragments of promises still swimming in my irises.
i want him to know that my smile still stutters across sentences,
that even though i haven't broken yet, i'm pretty damn close.
i want to ask him:
if an avalanche occurs when no one is looking,
will there still be a feeling of panic?
what happens to the leaves on apple trees?
if the piano is out of tune,
why do we bother dancing in the first place?
there is this lump in my throat that has not yet translated into a
Literature
Ways to conquer heartbreak
Dance with fistfuls of roses, shred their petals one by one and wear their thorns like armor.
Write your secrets between the folds of paper cranes and tuck them safely between the empty spaces of your castle ribs.
Open your broken heart to hummingbirds, allow them the warmth and shelter of your arms.
Rebel. Tape poetry to your limbs, Cummings and Sandburg and Sexton.
Take a walk outside of your skin for a while, run with wolves.
Extinguish that forest fire that’s been curling too long in your lungs.
Be that lionhearted girl those snobby poets always write about.
Allow that cavern of stars in your throat to speak your truths in uppercase
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Prompt #30 of *DearPoetry's NaPoWriMo prompt list [link].
Obviously I'm not partaking in NaPoWriMo, but I saw this prompt and thought, "Well. This could be therapeutic."
And so while I'm trying not to dwell on the constant bullshit that I feel I've been doused in, I jotted this pathetic crap down in some semblance to make me feel better.
Have fun deciphering this. Though I think it's pretty damn obvious.
Obviously I'm not partaking in NaPoWriMo, but I saw this prompt and thought, "Well. This could be therapeutic."
And so while I'm trying not to dwell on the constant bullshit that I feel I've been doused in, I jotted this pathetic crap down in some semblance to make me feel better.
Have fun deciphering this. Though I think it's pretty damn obvious.
© 2013 - 2024 lupus-astra
Comments30
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HEY!!! Your writing is beautiful and very good. You shouldn't have such a low opinion of yourself and your work because you have a real gift. This particular poem just proves it, and is in no way pathetic crap. (I'm trying to be encouraging here, I hope I don't come across as mean). Don't knock your work, it is brilliant.